This secluded car park, accessed by a steep ramp and shielded by bushes, was the location where Robert Kilgore had chosen to meet Archie Goff. The American, always scrupulously punctual, had arrived twenty minutes before his 8 p.m. appointment, reversing his Tesla into a space against the rear of the car park, giving him a clear view of every vehicle arriving. Quickly, he removed a traffic cone from the rear of the car, placing it at the front of the empty space immediately to his right.
Thursdays, traditionally pay day, was a big night out for many, and the car park was filling up rapidly, as a steady stream of vehicles flowed in. Kilgore figured he was unlikely to be noticed by any of the customers arriving, dressed up for their evening out, looking forward to meeting friends and having drinks and a good meal. No one was going to give a toss about a solitary old guy in a car in the dark smoking a cigarette.
He clocked each of the headlights flaring up the ramp: a Porsche; a Jag; a Mini; a plumber’s van. Then, finally, a tired old Astra, its front number plate cracked and at a wonky angle, the exhaust shot. Instantly identifying the car from its registration and from the description Goff had given him over the phone, Kilgore flashed his headlights, once, then opened his door, jumped out, removed the cone and climbed back in, putting the cone in the passenger footwell. Goff drove straight in and wound his window down.
Kilgore lowered his, checking there was no one in earshot. ‘Are we good, Mr Goff?’ he asked.
‘We’re good.’
‘You’re all clear what you need to do?’
‘Yep, I’m on it.’
Kilgore lifted the bubble-wrapped copy of the Fragonard off the passenger seat and passed it through the window to Goff, followed by a burner phone. ‘It’s got one number programmed in. Text it when you’re done and you’ll get back my instructions for the handover.’
‘Leave it to me. That’s when you’ll pay me the balance, yeah?’
Kilgore said nothing for a moment, he just sat staring at the old burglar’s face. There was something about the man he hadn’t cared for when he’d first met him for breakfast at the Grand Hotel, something shifty and evasive in his eyes, and he saw that same look again now. In addition to paying the bail, Mr Piper had agreed a £2,000 fee. ‘That’s when we’ll pay you the balance, Mr Goff.’
52
Friday, 1 November
Archie Goff drove slowly up the steep residential street of Mackie Crescent in Patcham. It was, coincidentally, just half a mile or so from where he’d been handed the painting last night. As he passed a row of tennis courts to his right, the Kiplings’ house appeared on his left, on a street corner, and he clocked that the driveway was empty, apart from Harry Kipling’s pick-up. Neither Harry’s Volvo estate nor Freya’s Fiat 500 were there. Good.
From the daily surveillance he had carried out this week, he had established that Harry Kipling left for work at 7.30 a.m., pretty much on the nose, every morning, and Freya Kipling around twenty minutes later. She always returned around 4.30 p.m., with their droopy-looking son with his headphones. Yesterday she had gone out again, twenty minutes later, dressed like she was going to some kind of fitness class. And yesterday, instead of 5 p.m., her husband returned closer to 5.30 p.m. and unloaded a bunch of groceries from his car.
The only time Harry had come back in the morning had been on Monday, when he shot home around midday to pick up some building supplies.
Turning left in front of the house and heading up the hill, with small houses and bungalows on either side of the road, Archie found a parking space between two cars. They were outside the yellow-line zone here, so he didn’t need to worry about the car getting ticketed and logged.
He climbed out, wearing a hi-vis jacket, black trousers, trainers and a baseball cap. Then he lifted the bubble-wrapped painting, now in a layer of brown paper, from the rear seat, along with a clipboard, locked the car, then walked casually away, parcel and clipboard under his arm, and back down towards the Kiplings’ house.
It was a tip an old lag in prison had given him many years ago, that if you didn’t want to arouse curiosity in a neighbourhood, then wear a yellow hi-vis jacket and carry a clipboard, it would make you pretty much invisible.
Mackie Crescent was deserted, apart from a tubby elderly woman on a mobility scooter, heading away from him, down the hill on the pavement on the far side of the road, along by the tennis courts. Heading to the shops in the village, he guessed, patting his jacket pocket for the copy of the back door key he’d had cut from the wax impression he’d taken when he’d broken into the house last Saturday night, although he guessed it might not be of any use now. He was still annoyed at himself for breaking that rear windowpane. He’d intended to simply cut it out, reach in and unlock the security chain in place on the back door, then re-putty the glass back. But he’d not been expecting the pane to be rotten — certainly not in a builder’s home — and it had fallen out, taking him by surprise.
He was pretty sure that the locks would now have been changed on all the doors, but no problem. In another pocket he carried a few pieces of kit, one a tool for picking just about any commercially available door or window lock, the other items for removing security chains.
As he walked down he slowed his pace, taking in all his surroundings, while pretending to make the occasional note on his clipboard. As he did so, he glanced surreptitiously for any signs of anyone watching him, especially any twitching curtains, but saw none. Urban burglaries had never been his thing, at least not since the first time he’d been nicked. But hey, this was the deal, and it was a sweet one. And it enabled him to be out of prison and home with his beloved Isabella.
Just this morning to get through.
Adjusting his cap so the peak was low over his face, and pulling on dark glasses, he clutched the parcel and the clipboard, trying to look every inch that he was here on business, strode up to the front door, keeping his face low, out of sight of the cameras, rang the bell and then rapped the brass leprechaun door knocker, with his cover story — that he was in the wrong street — at the ready in case anyone surprised him by appearing.
Silence.
He rang and knocked again.
Still silence.
Nice.
Still acting all casual in case a nosy neighbour was observing, he walked around to the side of the house, negotiated the bins and round to the rear, clocking the garden with its small pond, and a shed framed with tall leylandii trees. The last time he had been here it was in darkness, and now he was pleased to see the garden shrubbery and the trees at the far end gave it total privacy from the neighbours.
He tried his new key in the back door, but as he had suspected, the lock had been changed. Not a problem. It took him less than a minute of working his slender metal picks for the lock to click open. Pushing the door, it only moved a few inches before resisting. A security chain.
In less than a further minute, using a flat, plastic schoolboy ruler and a strong elastic band, he popped that open, too.
Inside the house, which he’d only previously seen by torchlight, he hurried through to the lounge, which was at the front. He checked the street, through the windows. All clear. Then out of habit he glanced around the room to see if there was anything small of value he could nick that might not be missed. The coffee table between a sofa and two armchairs had a glass top, making it into a display cabinet. It contained dozens of tiny silver spoons — mustard spoons, salt spoons, some shiny, some tarnished and in need of polishing. Worth a few bob. Maybe he’d come back for them one day, he thought. But it would only be small pickings.